


Can I have a moment before I go?

by Elisexyz



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different Framework Universe (Marvel), Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-28
Updated: 2018-02-28
Packaged: 2019-03-25 06:43:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13828680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elisexyz/pseuds/Elisexyz
Summary: Jemma really would have preferred to spare herself this goodbye.





	Can I have a moment before I go?

**Author's Note:**

> Another Tumblr prompt, [13: “ Don’t leave me… ” + Biospecialist](http://heytheredeann.tumblr.com/post/171390303949/hi-biospecialist-dont-leave-me-please). ~~You people like to suffer. Yeah, me too.~~  
>  It's an AU of the Framework AU. But also an AU of everything else. Basically Jemma and Ward were married before joining the team (and they joined together anyway because pfffft what's protocol when Coulson's involved?), but everything else is pretty much the same. As for the Framework, Jemma is still dead, only she was, again, married to Ward. I think this is pretty much all the information you need.  
>  The title is from [_When we were young_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gmPsLrOAlVc) by Adele, which is pretty much the ultimate Framework song for me, be it Skyeward, Biospecialist, _whatever_ , it hurts me.

“Jemma.”

She barely resists the urge to curse at the sound of his voice. And here for a second she _dared_ to hope that he would be too busy to run after her as soon as he found out about the plan. At this point, she has no choice other than turning around and hoping that this won’t take too long to deal with.

Grant, fake alternate universe or not, never makes anything easy for her, so it’s hardly surprising that he’s wearing his most heart-wrecking hurt expression.

Jemma swallows. “Yes?” she asks, and it sounds innocent enough, even if it’s futile considering that they both know what she’s about to do.

She _really_ would have preferred to spare herself this goodbye.

He hesitates just half a second before getting closer, looking just as desperate and needy as he did each time she came back from a close call on the field – back on the Bus, when everything was much simpler and she didn’t know him half as well as she thought, and isn’t it cruel how she’s being forced to say goodbye to that version of him again?

“Don’t leave me,” he finally says, softly. He may not have said ‘please’, but it sounds like a plead anyway. Grant was never one to easily resort to _pleads_. Hearing it makes her heart lose a couple of sizes.

“I have to,” she replies. She needs to save Fitz. She won’t condemn him to a reality in which he’s a cold-blooded psychopath, and she surely won’t let him deal with the emotional baggage that will result from this whole thing on his own. She needs to save him and she needs to be there for the fall-out. She can’t – she _won’t_ – abandon her best friend in the world over— some piece of code.

Grant may look and feel very _real_ , but he’s nothing but code, he’s an illusion. Resigning herself to this crappy reality only to get her husband back is foolish— downright insane, actually, because this is an illusion, this is a very nice lie: Grant was a serial killer, a traitor who went down a crazy spiral of revenge over another woman, someone that she shouldn’t even _dream_ to associate herself with anymore.

 _This_ Grant, the mole for SHIELD, the guy who did nothing but trying to honour his wife’s sacrifice under a crazy dictatorship— this may be the man that she fell in love with once upon a time, but he doesn’t _exist_. At best, he was a part of the real Grant Ward. At worst, it was nothing but an elaborate lie. Jemma’s preference varies depending on the days.

Either way, this Grant is a _code_. Just a bunch of meaningless code meant to screw with her head. He isn’t _real_.

“But why?” he insists. “Jem,” he calls, reaching for her arm the way he always did when he wanted to be heard – she probably should flinch away at the touch, but she stays still. “This _works_ ,” he insists. “You’re dead here, I’m dead there. We could be together.”

Jemma’s eyes are stinging against her better judgement. He’s code. Just code. She shouldn’t even be wasting her time with this.

“ _You_ are the only one who’s dead,” she spits out, and for a second she wonders when her desperation started showing itself under the disguise of cruelty. Is it a privilege reserved just for him? Did she pick it up _from_ him? “This isn’t _real_.”

He keeps staring at her dead in the eyes, his gaze not lowering even for a second. “It feels pretty damn real to me,” he retorts. She doesn’t have an answer to that. “And I’m pretty sure _I_ feel pretty real to you too,” he adds, squeezing her arm gently to prove his point.

“I’m experiencing a very vivid illusion,” she replies, breaking eye-contact – that’s not a game that she would have allowed herself to lose in front of the real Grant, but this is a fake, a code, there’s no reason to engage in a battle meant to be fought against the real traitor, right?

“Don’t you miss me?” he suddenly asks. It’s unexpected enough that her head immediately shoots up and she finds herself staring at his face once again. “I surely do miss _you_ , can you say that it’s not the same for you?”

She wants to laugh. It’s probably hysterics.

“It’s _complicated_ ,” she ends up saying. There are a lot of things implied in her tone, and since Grant wasn’t spared the summary of his double’s deeds he doesn’t need any further explanation.

“I know,” he says, gently. “And I’m sorry. But I’m not like _him_. We could be happy here.”

“In an apocalyptic _fake_ world?” she points out, managing some sarcasm.

He shrugs. “We can fight. We can _fix_ this. But the only thing I care about— I just need you back.” He doesn’t voice it, but she can still hear him asking: _Don’t you want the same?_

And the question is— _does_ she?

She doesn’t dwell on the answer for more than two seconds, though, because it doesn’t _matter_. This still isn’t real and she won’t abandon Fitz and the others. Not a chance. Especially not over a bunch of code. Especially not over her traitor husband.

“Things are very different in my world,” she says.

He lets out a slight scoff. “If you are trying to tell me that we weren’t married,” he replies. “I should probably let you know that when you are nervous you still play with a ring that isn’t there anymore.” Jemma automatically glances at her hands, and yes, she sure as hell _is_ doing it.

She quickly forces herself to stop, even if it won’t do any good, and for a moment she regrets her choice of putting the ring back on after Grant’s murder – she only wore it when she was undercover for Hydra, as a necessary evil, but after Fitz told her what Coulson did she couldn’t help feeling so incredibly _angry_ that she just needed to show it somehow; the first time Coulson noticed the ring he looked puzzled, and she silently _dared_ him to say something; the fact that he didn’t was almost disappointing.

“You _could_ try to tell me that it was someone else,” Grant continues. “But—”

“You’re too arrogant to buy it?” she interrupts, trying to shake away the feeling of being cornered after he pointed out her tic. It’s not some proof of fidelity or _love_ , she was proving a _point_. She only went back to wearing the ring to shove in Coulson’s face that he didn’t have any _right_ to do what he did, that she knows and that she’s not okay with it. Nothing more than that.

He grins at the remark. “I was about to say that some things are just meant to be,” he replies.

That gets a smile out of her before she can do anything to prevent it. It turns more into a disbelieving chuckle half-way through, because she has heard similar sentiment from him before, and it’s just ridiculous that he seems to be subtly trying to convince her that he _is_ real.

Because he is not. She’s staring at a piece of code.

“I really have to go,” she says, her tone forcibly neutral. She sees his face fall a little, but she’s never known him to give up that easily.

“Jemma, just think about this,” he insists. Again with the desperate look. She hates how it makes her determination quiver.

She needs to save Fitz. She has a life, friends, a family. She won’t give it up for an illusion.

“I have,” she replies. She’s quite proud of how firm her voice is. “I can’t stay. I need to help my friends. I need to save Fitz.”

She makes it a point of looking at him in the eyes as she states this, and he stares for a long moment before she can see resignation and defeat making their way through his expression.

“Okay,” he sighs, letting go of her arm and taking a small step back. “Okay.”

This time, she’s not the one avoiding eye-contact. Jemma can’t help remembering how he launched himself onto her when he saw her, holding tight enough that it hurt, mumbling non-sense all too quickly for her to catch it all. She thinks of her own pain, of the hurt tearing away her lungs when they discovered Koenig’s body, of the unexpected punch in the gut when she didn’t see him come back from Maveth – and while that could have been written off as grief over Will, there was no mistaking the rage and pain when Fitz told her what he saw.

“You’ll be fine,” she assures in a beat, moving slightly forward at the sudden urge to offer some physical comfort – which is ridiculous, because he isn’t real and he wears the face of someone that she’s supposed to loathe.

He scoffs, glancing at her. “I wasn’t fine _before_ , now that I got you back only for you to leave again I don’t think I’ll be _fine_ ever again.”

“I’m sorry,” she can only reply, chocking a little on the words.

He raises his eyes on her and he comes up with a small smile, looking sad and enamoured at the same time – Jemma remembers seeing that look before, and it hurts more than it reasonably should.

“It’s okay,” he assures. He sounds honest. He isn’t the _real_ Grant, so she allows herself to believe that he _is_ being sincere. “You’ve always been too good.” He hesitates for a second. “Just tell me something,” he finally lets out, and Jemma gives him a small nod to prompt him to continue. “If you didn’t have to save anyone— if it was just about _you_ — would you stay then?”

Jemma’s first reaction is backing away slightly. “What does it matter?” she retorts. “I _can’t_ stay.”

“It matters to me,” he simply states. Then he just stares and waits. Jemma always hated when he did that, because the urge to fill the heavy silence becomes all too compelling and she’s not a good liar. Or she wasn’t. She’s learnt deception quite well in the mean time.

She shouldn’t even be _considering_ this, because it’s a piece of code she’s talking to, technically she could just turn her back on him without another word and it wouldn’t matter – _It feels pretty damn real to me_.

Truth is, she doesn’t know. A part of her wants to. She’s spent a long time privately wishing for Grant to be just the kind of man that she’s staring at right now, and she could _have_ this— She _has_ missed him. It’s stupid to deny, but it’s also painfully embarrassing to admit. Longing for a murderer wouldn’t look good on anybody’s resumé.

But as much as she’d like to make sense of her feelings like she does with the weird findings that characterize her line of work, she can’t. She’s missed him, and there’s a part of her that most likely always will.

“I’m afraid I might,” she confesses in a whisper. That gets another smile out of him.

“Thanks,” he nods. “Can I get a hug before you go and be a hero again?” he adds, opening his arms slightly to invite her in. It’s pretty relieving to see that she’s not the only one tearing up here.

She swallows with way more difficulty than she’s supposed to, nodding, then she steps forward to walk right into his arms in a dance that has never actually stopped being familiar. He strokes her back as he bends forward to rest his chin on her head, trapping her in a way that used to make her feel so insanely _safe_ – and still does, against all reason.

“I’m glad I got to see you again,” he whispers, the words sounding muffled because half of her face is pressed against his chest.

“Me too,” she lets out. As she dwells into the warmth of his arms and she almost wishes to _stay_ there, at least for a while, she’s sure that she’s being sincere.

She’s the one who starts pulling away, and he lets her. “Good luck,” she smiles through unshed tears. He looks blurry, but she’s sure he smiled too.

“Be safe,” he replies. She nods before sharply turning her back and heading out, suddenly afraid that she might dwell on something lost for longer than she can afford. She doesn’t look back, because she isn’t sure she could stand it.


End file.
